


Skinned Snakes

by willowbilly



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Alley Sex, Black Widow E.C., Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/willowbilly
Summary: E.C. finds a man he likes.





	Skinned Snakes

**Author's Note:**

> For the 12 Days of Carnivale prompt "a special disguise."

The man's name is Cornelius Hickey. He's a fresh-faced enough lad, with a passing resemblance to himself, though not quite as beautiful and not quite as slender, and smooth-shaven rather than whiskered. But he has near the same height, and the coloring. Coppery hair and a pale Irish complexion to match the accent which E.C. lacks, his cheeks increasingly rosy with drink.

He's loose with it. Eager and friendly as a puppy, and similarly, charmingly bashful. He's felt the kick of a boot before for making those eyes at another man, laughably blue and guileless and trusting, but that doesn't stop him from making them now, from throwing his trust out again like a line. From licking and biting his own pert mouth until his lips are wet and red, and pushing his knee up against his companion's thigh beneath the ancient table of sticky, battered oak. A last hurrah before shipping out.

E.C. clasps Hickey's shoulder, his forearm. Going further down his sleeve as they make merry. Testing boundaries.

Hickey blooms like a flower at the camaraderie. Leans into the touches as if seeking sunlight, though it is dark outside by now, and what E.C. will do to him is darker yet.

He moves to put his hand into E.C.'s all on his own, sliding down palm-to-palm as demurely as Cinderella poking her foot into that bauble of a glass slipper. He squeezes, daringly, and meets E.C.'s eyes with a level, if unfocused, gaze. Licks his lips again, very deliberately, so that E.C. will not miss his intention.

By then his mouth is as sloppily gleaming a red as a wet candy, but E.C. discovers that it is not as sweet when he shoves him back against the rough alley wall outside and kisses him.

It's a chance, as some men do not take kindly to kissing, only ever skulking about for some shamefully hurried release, prickly about any whiff of sentiment, scared of being considered effeminate. He has been decked before for kissing. Had insults spat at him for having the _gall,_ the sinful _shamelessness,_ as if he were the only one out of a two-man tryst interested in buggery in the first place. As if kissing is so much worse a thing than pure, carnal rutting.

They've lit the lamps but the street is poor and the alley is all shadows. Cold and dark and utterly unlike the balmy tropics Hickey had waxed poetic about with great, illustrative gestures, the names of exotic islands drawing E.C. into the same dream. His mouth is hot and too slack, dripping with hope, bitter with alcohol and musty with the human breath whuffing from the pink subterranean caverns of his lungs. E.C. presses in and twists his tongue inside the man's lower lip, across the uneven rungs of his lower teeth, and the fool moans, melts, helpless and rubbery. A rubber mannequin of a man. He's nothing more than a mere identity, a soon-to-be-empty suit; a special disguise waiting to be taken up and taken advantage of.

Hickey gasps again when E.C. gets his trousers open and pulls him out into the chill. The weight of him is lovely in hand, stiff and pulsing despite the amount of drink, skin soft over hungry blood-engorged tissue, the tip drooling as much as his mouth. He makes little wounded mewling sounds as E.C. strokes him, and E.C. hushes him, covers his mouth with his other hand. Almost screams against E.C.'s fingers when he digs his thumbnail into the spurting, tender slit of his cock, his hips bucking out from the wall.

It is just light enough for him to see Hickey's eyes, and he looks into them as he brings the lad off, sees the moment that the pleasure takes him and his whole body crashes from tension into lassitude as E.C. catches the seed in his palm. His eyes widen with reverence, or perhaps even with affection, as he watches E.C. lick the mess from his hand to clean it. The spend is far more bitter than the ale, and far sweeter as well.

E.C. would've liked to kiss him again, but that would require he take his other hand from Hickey's mouth. He settles for placing his forehead against Hickey's, their eyelashes brushing, breath mingling, as he finds the lad's femoral artery with the knife from his pocket and slices it open.

Quick. Relatively painless.

Hickey struggles, of course, but just about all his blood sprays right out, like overturning a jug of milk for it all to splatter to the dirt. It only takes seconds before he's weak as a kitten. The rose drains out of his cheeks and his pupils yawn until nothing of the sky is left in his eyes.

E.C. holds him against the wall, holding him up until he's sure he's passed, and then he fishes Cornelius Hickey's papers from the corpse's jacket. Careful not to get a single drop of blood on them.

It's his name for now, after all. Wouldn't want to besmirch it prematurely.

 

 


End file.
